By Anzhelina Polonskaya

My countries and lands
send your nights out for profit.
O, White Sea nets,
I am your fish.
It’s over. Let all whom I loved
be forgiven.
I’ve lost the words
or they’ve been burnt.
Maybe the fishermen will
release me into that cursed sea,
looking into my eyes –
With my fins, I’ll shield the boat
from the white waves,
and swim instinctively
to the shore where you’ve been
waiting for beauty or ugliness,
which are all the same to you.

Translated by Andrew Wachtel